


Wheel of Westeros Book Five: Rise of Griff Part One

by Thrafrau (annmcbee)



Series: Wheel of Westeros [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-10 15:18:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20853911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annmcbee/pseuds/Thrafrau
Summary: Young Griff gathers allies and faces temptation before learning terrible news about someone he loves. Queen Daenerys inquires of Tyrion about her possible betrothed. Disgraced knight Jaime Lannister attempts again to rid the kingdoms of a tyrant, and is surprised.





	Wheel of Westeros Book Five: Rise of Griff Part One

** _The Wheel of Westeros_ **

**Book Five: Rise of Griff Part One**

_Disclaimer:_

_This fan fiction is meant neither to be a continuation of George R. R. Martin’s _A Song of Ice and_ Fire series, nor a revision of seasons 6-8 of the HBO series, _Game of Thrones_. It is meant to stand alone, independent of those works, and can be read alone by those who have not seen the TV series or read the books. Having said that, this work will borrow from not only _Game of Thrones_ and _A Song of Ice and Fire, _but from multiple other works of film, television, music and literature. Please see footnotes for references, and feel free to point out any I’ve forgotten._

Chapter 1: Griff

Griff hadn’t known what to expect upon meeting Stannis Baratheon. He’d been told of his great height and steely demeanor, but the reality was quite beyond what the words of the Storm Lords and their smallfolk could convey. “Imposing” was the word Connington had used, and that came close, but there probably wasn’t a word in any tongue that fit the cold, looming tower that cast his shadow across the beach at Dragonstone. Griff found himself standing as straight as possible. If he could have added a tier or two to his spine he would have. His six feet didn’t come close. He wished he could have stayed on his horse.

“Lord Stannis. I’m grateful that you’ve agreed to treat with me under these circumstances. I hope your journey was without mishap,” Griff said, feeling that no matter what he said, it wouldn’t be kingly enough for Stannis.

“I haven’t agreed to treat anything, prince, and my journey was a misery, thank you very much. You claim yourself to be the son of Rhaegar and heir to the Iron Throne, as my bannermen have informed me.”

“It is the truth, my lord. I swear by all the Gods.”

“None of my gods I assure you. I knew your father briefly. You favor him in color and build, but…”

“But you don’t believe it.”

“I can’t say at the moment what I believe. I can say what I know. That you attacked my family’s castle, but treated my lords and ladies with mercy and respect. With the exception of the maester of Storm’s End, who by all accounts was useless at any rate.”

Griff sucked in a breath. Franklyn Flowers, a captain of the Golden Company who served prominently on his war council, had tossed the maester into the sea rather unceremoniously. Griff hadn’t known how to feel about that. “Flowers” was the name of all bastards born in the Reach, and one that did not fit Frank at all. He was a hulk of a man whose face was crisscrossed with scars and missing an ear. He had seen many years with the Company, and was a brutal adversary. Griff appreciated his aptitude in battle, but meant to keep an eye on him. Griff didn’t want to start out as a king known for brutality.

“I offer my maester, Haldon, to serve in his stead,” Griff said. “I think you’ll find him sublimely qualified.”

“Foisted upon rather than offered, but I’m not ungrateful.”

“Furthermore, I am willing to restore your seat as Lord of Storm’s End, if you agree to lay down your arms in pursuit of the Iron Throne.”

“And why should I cede to you, prince…who may not be a prince at all. The histories as of now tell of your death as an infant in the sack of King’s Landing.”

“My _murder_ as an infant….and the histories will soon be telling a different story.”

“My brother would tell a different story altogether…one in which House Baratheon won the Iron Throne by conquest.”

“By usurpation, Lord Stannis. All Robert ever really conquered was every virgin and cask of wine in the Kingdoms, from what I hear.”

“You’ve a sharp wit, prince…I’ll give you that much. And what of Daenerys Targaryen, whose blood no one doubts. Suppose, given you’ve far from proven your identity, I pledge allegiance to her instead.”

“You’re welcome to do so…since she’ll be my wife before long.”

“Does she know that? Haven you somehow proven to her what you’ve failed to prove to me?”

“If we speak of proof, I might ask whether you can prove you didn’t destroy the holy Sept of Baelor. When I am king, it will be my duty to punish those responsible for that sacrilege.”

“Proof exists, I’m sure, though I won’t trouble myself with it. You don’t appear stupid in the slightest, so I’ll assume you know perfectly well it was Cersei Lannister’s doing.”

“A ploy to avoid justice for the crime of incest… yes I hold to that theory, but your loyalty to this Red God does give Cersei a convenient cause to accuse you. I, of course, believe you to be an honorable man, despite your heresy, and I’m willing to grant a pardon if necessary.”

“If I lay down my claim to the Throne you mean.”

“That is non-negotiable.”

Stannis stroked his chin with a gloved hand. His red cloak ruffled ever so slightly in the sudden wind that blew over the bluffs.

“It so happens, prince, that I have agreed to take on a rather sizable debt incurred by my late brother’s profligacy and the cost of subduing the North and the Riverlands, which you may or may not know are currently ruled by men of little worth and low character. If you will sign that debt over to yourself, I’ll take it as collateral proof that you are who you say you are.”

“And how much is this debt?”

Stannis didn’t quite smile, but there was a whiplash in the corner of his thin lips that might be attributed to amusement, if he could feel such a thing. “Six million gold dragons and counting,” he said.

Griff felt the sand shift beneath his feet for a moment, but he quickly composed himself. He forced himself not to think of the million he already owed for the Golden Company and their elephants. He couldn’t help looking over at Connington, who stood to his right. Connington looked pained. Lately, it seemed to Griff that he was unusually sullen. The last few suppers, he’d hardly eaten, and his eyes had a tendency to be downcast more than usual.

“Very well,” Griff said. “If that’s what it takes to prove my devotion to the duties that accompany my birthright, then I shall draw up the proper papers immediately. I supposed we shall have to solicit the Iron Bank’s approval.”

“Do so, and solidify your union with the princess. Then and only then will I lay down my arms and concede my claim to the Throne,” Stannis said, glowering. “But before I pledge my forces, I’ll need further proof that my loyalty and my men’s lives isn’t spent on just another tyrannical pretender.”

“I’m here to rid the kingdoms of tyrants and pretenders Lord Stannis.”

“Then do so. Take Maidenpool from the Lannisters and take Cersei’s Lannister’s head. In the meantime, allow my forces to march on Winterfell in the North. As long as the Boltons have the North, it will be drowned in chaos and rebellion. Let me restore the castle to its rightful liege lord.”

“I’m told all the Starks are dead, my lord.”

“That may be indeed. Allow me to make that determination.”

“And if no Starks remain, I suppose you want the North for yourself.”

“I’d just as soon let the Black Bastard have that cold grey wasteland. He’d know better what to do with it.” Stannis’s eyebrows tilted wryly, and Griff could see he wasn’t being told something.

“A man of the Night’s Watch can hold no lands or titles.”

“Of course,” Stannis said in a quiet but ominous tone. “Yes, I’ll take the North. My duty there is not fulfilled, and the night is dark and full of terrors.”

There it was…Stannis’s infamous fanaticism, as if the red flames of his sigil and the red paint on his men’s shield didn’t reveal it enough. It actually put Griff at ease, for how could he take a kook too seriously?

“Come my lord...let’s draw up our treaty. I should be honored to host you and your soldiers at Dragonstone. But first, I must insist,” Griff said smiling. “…that you bend the knee, as a token of our peace.”

Stannis’s expression revealed absolutely nothing. In a regal sweep of his arm, he drew his sword, and pierced the sand with it as he knelt stiffly. In spite of himself, Griff stared in awe at the sword Stannis had drawn, for he had never seen its like. The Valyrian steel of the blade shone in waves of red and gold and orange, catching the light of the evening sun, and Griff could swear it burst into living flame.

Chapter 2: Tyrion

The adjoining chamber to the throne room of Daenerys Targaryen contained a couch in the shape of a crescent moon upholstered in red and gold brocade. The incense floating in the air was almost enough to cover up the stench of fire and death that blew in from the slats in the blinds. Maebi of the Dothraki and young herald Missandei, along with the queen’s handmaidens and Captain Grey Worm joined Tyrion, Ben and Jorah, who were invited to sit. Tyrion stared in admiration at the handmaidens’ garb. They both wore corsets of boiled black leather adorned with dragon scales or spiky horns made from shell or rolled leather and studded with onyx and ruby. The design slightly differed as the girls themselves did. The skirts were of blood-red silk with two slits in front revealing sandals with laces wound up their legs all the way to the upper thigh and then tied. Both had sharp daggers lashed to their thigh with leather straps. One girl had two thick braids wound in circles just over each ear. The other’s braids were amazingly piled upon her head in the shape of a daisy or pinwheel…perhaps with wire to keep its shape? They were both Dothraki, but didn’t just wear the typical black grease paint around the eyes…their eyes were elaborately painted in brilliant colors. The one he had heard the queen call Irri had what seemed to be a sunset drawn over her lids to her eyebrows, and her lips shone fiery red. The one called Jiqui had brown over her lids that bloomed into iridescent greens and blues like a peacock feather all the way into her temples, and her lips were a rich brown. Irri’s earrings of silver hung down like long willow branches to her chest, and the tops of them curved up and over the back of her ear, in the shape of flames. Jiqui’s gold earrings were enormous hoops with bells on them, and a string of gold bells connected to one of them was strewn across her cheek and connected to her nose. Their shoulders were bare, with the exception of more jewels…brass maybe – like metal shawls. Tyrion imagined not long ago these girls were slaves, or the personal property of some horse lord or another. Now they walked with their heads high, like goddesses in the flesh.

Daenerys offered them wine poured by Irri and Jiqui. Tyrion noticed that the handmaidens poured for their queen first, and when everyone who wanted it had a glass including Tyrion, they helped themselves as well. The party was then joined by Daario Naharis, who strolled in with his usual swagger, nodding at Tyrion and his newly formed companions. Then, to Tyrion’s surprise, Ser Barristan Selmy, former Kingsguard to Robert Baratheon appeared. He walked with a slight limp, and bore a cut above the eye, but otherwise looked no older or worse for wear than the last time Tyrion had seen him. His armor was of course different…cream and gold had been replaced with black and red. Tyrion supposed that was how it was always meant to be. It seemed the perfect destiny for the man who had served the Targaryens faithfully up until the day they were overthrown.

“Ser Barristan…” Tyrion sputtered. “So good to see you well…I didn’t know…”

“You may thank Ser Barristan for your life, Lord Tyrion,” Daenerys said. “It was he who told me of your exploits and who spoke to your integrity and courage.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Tyrion said. “Thank you…and know I deeply regret your dismissal from the Kingsguard…as I’m sure Cersei will soon enough.”

“It wasn’t you who dismissed me, and I for one regret nothing,” Ser Barristan said.

“Ser Barristan has been enormously valuable to me. He led the battle against my enemies while I was indisposed…without him all would have been lost. Which is not to say I am not grateful to others whose bravery has proven indispensable…”

Her glittering eyes swept over Grey Worm and Jorah…lingering longer somewhat on Daario. Naharis was a handsome, if a bit flamboyant man, with his multicolored tunic, blue braided beard and knife with a hilt shaped like a naked woman. Tyrion concluded from his gaze upon Daenerys that he was madly in love with her. _So that makes two._

“I hope your wounds do not trouble you too much, Ser Barristan,” Daenerys said in a voice that was surprisingly sweet. A change from the husky and domineering tone she had taken in the throne room.

“It takes a bit more time to heal than it did when I was a boy, but I feel fit enough, my queen.”

“Good. Speaking of wounds, Lord Tyrion. May I ask how you obtained that wound on your face?”

For some reason, to have her speak to him felt like a splash of warm water. Tyrion felt himself blush. “Sword wound, during the Battle of Blackwater Bay at King’s Landing. Delivered not by any soldier in league with Stannis Baratheon, but rather by a mercenary in league with my sister, who hoped it would kill me.”

“But it didn’t.”

“Thanks only to my squire Podrick Payne. A good lad who I don’t suppose I shall ever see again. Put a spear through the back of the man’s head. And you my queen…may I inquire as to how you received your wound?” The scars on her back were even more terrifying up close – he’d never seen anything like them.

“You may not,” Daenerys replied. “The reason I wished to speak with you involves this letter…” She unrolled the letter that she had been fondling for several minutes and handed it to him. “Jorah tells me you are acquainted with a young Griff, who claims to be my brother’s son, and who has sailed to Westeros in the interest of taking the Iron Throne for himself.”

So he had written her already. Tyrion nodded as he skimmed the letter, which was written in Griff’s careful hand. It was impressive indeed. Septa Lemore had taught him well how to reveal some of his intent, but not too much. How to express some, but not too much feeling. It was really quite endearing, and Tyrion couldn’t help but feel sorry for the lad with whom he had spent only a brief time. What tone would this letter have taken if he could see the intimidating figure covered with garish scars and spiked jewels that was his desired betrothed? What tone would it take if he knew the queen believed herself unable to bear sons?

“Indeed I have met this young man, and I confess we did discuss your grace at one point. I can tell you he was quite set on your betrothal.”

“So the letter says. One’s writing reveals much about a person, don’t you find? For instance, this Jon Snow writes in what I would call rather poor hand and very little elegance. But sincere. Most sincere, and genuine in his request. Artless…and genuine. Whereas Griff’s letter I admit did move me. Such poetry. So eloquent…but genuine? I’m not sure. What can you tell me about him? Why did he not approach me here in Essos?”

Tyrion gulped. He saw his precarious allegiance with the dragon queen slipping through his fingers. “I’m…afraid I may have advised him…at some point…that uh, he might do better to make his move upon the kingdoms first. I thought, if he had more to offer you than his word?’

“And why would I take offers from him of any kind? I have three dragons and two powerful armies, and a sellsword army besides. If I want the kingdoms, I’ll take them. With or without this…Griff.”

“If, your grace?” Ser Barristan spoke. “Or when?” He looked concerned.

“My dear Ser Barristan. You know well my work is not done here.”

“Of course, your grace. But it will be done, and when it is, should you give over half of what’s yours to a boy you’ve never known? If he is the real Aegon, he might have earned your love by fighting beside you. Here.”

Tyrion interjected. “If it please your grace, the time to strike the kingdoms is now. My sister loses more of her grip by the day. This way, they will be waiting for you…whenever you decide to return.”

“This is all immaterial,” Daario Naharis interrupted. “Maybe he is the true heir. Maybe not. Our queen is no helpmate or consort. She’s a conqueror. When she’s freed the free cities, she’ll sail west and take the Seven Kingdoms for herself. She cares not for the line of succession. She takes what is hers.”

“You speak out of turn Captain. I will say what I care for and what I plan to take…” Daenerys’ tone was sharp, but her eyes twinkled seductively, again lingering on Daario for a moment longer than was necessary. Daario in turn bowed submissively, but his smile curved wickedly as he did, and there was a deep abiding love in his dark blue eyes.

“As it stands, I may indeed marry young Griff. I may marry Victarion Greyjoy first,” the queen said, taking a sip of wine. Her fingertips, covered in their jeweled claws, clinked on the stem of the glass.

“If I may put in a word for the former,” Tyrion said. “Victarion Greyjoy is… well he’s a Greyjoy. He murdered his third wife for sleeping with his brother Euron…which may not have been her choice in the first place…”

“I’m not afraid of Victarion, believe me. I’ve known much worse.” The queen’s eyes frosted over and her mouth turned down.

“Aegon…Griff is a kind and noble young man. And reasonable. He only wants to serve the realm and to share it with the only family he has. Furthermore, he’s the proper age and his story checks out. And he’s handsome. Rather handsome. Dashing. If that matters at all.”

“It matters some…” Did she smile? It was hard to tell with such a presentation. Tyrion wondered what she would look like without the massive headdress and makeup and pointy fingertips. “But no matter…if he is my brother’s son I will know one way or another. Such things can be investigated. But I do appreciate your testimonial in his favor. Now…about the plague that ravages my cities. At this time, I welcome your ideas.”

Tyrion smiled and cleared his throat. “Well your grace…I have a few thoughts. They involve your dragons…”

Chapter 3: Griff

It so happened on this particularly dark and stormy afternoon that Griff found himself surrounded by women. His war council had met earlier to discuss the plans for advance on Maidenpool, currently held by Lannister allies, who would soon have to deal with the remaining Tyrell army. The destruction of the Sept of Baelor had killed their prize rose, Queen Margaery along with her father, Lord Mace of Highgarden, and numerous lords and ladies of the Reach with their best knights. Queen Cersei had committed this dreadful deed even after having owed two million dragons or more to the Tyrells, who had funded both her sons’ weddings as well as more than one move in the war effort. Now Griff would be honoring that debt, as he informed the Dowager Lady of Highgarden herself, Olenna Tyrell.

The old queen of thorns now sat at the table in the Dragonstone’s war room, the Chamber of the Painted Table, along with Lady Marya Seaworth of Storm’s End, and the most beautiful woman Griff had ever seen: Princess Arianne Martell of Dorne. Lady Tyrell was a tiny old woman with the stern gaze of a seasoned soldier. Griff had taken her arm when she arrived, helping her over the beach and up the long stairs to the gates of Dragonstone, but he quickly began to suspect she wasn’t as frail as she might appear to be. Her grip was downright bruising, and her tongue was even more so.

“You are ridiculously tall aren’t you,” she said, visibly unimpressed by the castle’s imposing walls and the grim stone dragons that adorned them. “You do resemble Rhaegar if I recall him rightly.”

“Thank you my lady,” Griff said, raising his voice over the roar of the sea to a near shout, as Connington had told him the old woman was nearly deaf.

“Don’t thank me, dear prince. I never understood the fuss over your father’s looks…thank the Gods.”

Griff smiled. “I’m told you cleverly avoided marrying one of my kin. Daeron, I think, yes? A great loss on his part.”

“Indeed. Oh I do hope you have some figs and cheese in that fright of a castle…after this hike I’ll need refreshment. Despite your best efforts, dear, every step you take I must take three!”

“If you like, my lady, I can carry you on my back like a peddler’s pack.”

“Oh dear,” Olenna scoffed. “Be careful what you offer! My bladder isn’t what it used to be either.”

They met Harry Strickland at the entrance to the throne room. Olenna had insisted upon meeting him, as she had a certain mistrust of paid armies, and the Golden Company might be responsible for saving Highgarden. The Tyrell army had lost many of its best, and they weren’t known for fighting. If they were to make a move against Cersei, they needed reliable help.

Griff introduced Harry and his men to the Dowager Lady, who smirked happily at the gold skulls on the Company’s banners. Harry might have made a perfect impression if it weren’t for his breath, which Griff noticed was atrocious as usual. He hoped Lady Olenna didn’t notice. Then Griff introduced Septa Lemore, who would escort Olenna to her grandson’s chambers for a visit. Loras Tyrell had been housed at Dragonstone since the Lannister siege on the castle, in which he received a grisly mace wound in his chest. Griff had ordered his care to continue, and supplied what was available of his own stash of Eastern medicines brought over the Narrow Sea, in hopes it might help him where other cures hadn’t. As it turned out, Loras’s injuries weren’t as grave as was rumored, and now he had a real chance of recovery, for which Griff didn’t mind taking some credit.

Later, after the war council adjourned, Griff met again with Lady Olenna and the two other ladies at the Painted Table. He had sent a bottle of Arbor Gold to Connington’s chambers after him. His foster father still seemed unusually tired and despondent, and Griff was worried. He hoped a good wine might lift the man’s spirits. They had a good chance of winning after all, according to Harry and Duck, especially once Maidenpool was emptied of their enemies.

“You can truly believe in our efforts, your grace. Victory is near,” Harry told Griff before departing.

“Is there a sprig of mint and some lemon near?” Griff asked. “And if so, might you give it a chew for the sake of all of us?”

Harry smirked. “I see the Queen of Thorns has had some influence on that tongue of yours, my king.”

“That may be so, but really, Harry,” Griff said. “Did you _eat_ a _fart_?”[1]

Now he sat with Lady Olenna, Lady Marya and Princess Arianne at the massive table carved by Griff’s ancestor Aegon Targaryen to look like Westeros at the time of the conquest. It was a marvel to behold, but not as much as Arianne. Griff fidgeted, became overly sweaty. He fought the constant urge to check his own breath and run a hand through his hair, which had an annoying way of standing up in all directions.

Arianne’s skin was the color of good bread, and her thick black curls tumbled luxuriously over her back and shoulders. She wore a green silken gown embellished with crimson and gold that hugged her curvaceous figure. A necklace of gilded feathers accentuated her extensive cleavage, and drops of red agate hung from the sweetest little ears Griff had ever seen. She sat in the chair closest to him, making it even more difficult for him to maintain composure. A fragrant heat seemed to exude from her gorgeously plump breasts. _Cinnamon_, Griff thought, _and oranges._ He began to feel dizzy. He concentrated on making small talk with Lady Seaworth, who might have been as lovely as Arianne a long time ago. Now she was an aging mother of seven, wife of the newly knighted Davos, a former smuggler now serving Stannis Baratheon and known as “the Onion Knight.” Marya was kindly and accommodating, as a woman would be who was new to nobility. She had waited patiently for an audience with Griff to inquire about the safety of her two youngest boys, and to plead for mercy on her husband’s behalf. Of course, Griff told her she needn’t worry.

“I’m actually looking forward to meeting your husband. He must have so many great stories. We might have been to a few of the same places, he and I,” Griff said.

“I do hope you might meet him as well. I received a letter recently from the North, but I fear the worst. He spoke of a terrible threat that sounded like madness…I hesitate to attempt a description,” Lady Marya said, her smile fading.

“Don’t worry yourself too much, my lady. Lord Stannis marches north even now…I’m sure he’ll see to your husband’s safe return, and I will pray to the Mother for his protection.”

“That’s kind, your grace,” Marya said softly, bowing her head.

Griff had in fact received a letter meant for Stannis from the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch that spoke of things rather inconceivable in known reality. The madness to which Lady Marya referred was the coming onslaught, according to this Jon Snow, of the Others and an army of undead. Griff couldn’t believe it. It was terribly dreary in the North, and Northerners like the Bastard of Winterfell tended to flights of fancy[2], Connington had told him. Still, Snow’s words didn’t sound like those of a madman. If anything, his language was very reserved and his sentences absolutely concise…not one word wasn’t necessary. Surely he wouldn’t have been chosen as Lord Commander at such a young age if he were a fool. Now Ser Davos had expressed the same concern, and Stannis had talked of some mission in the North as well. Could it be true? _No, it’s impossible,_ Griff thought. _It has to be._

“Just know, Lady Seaworth, that you and your boys are welcome at Dragonstone. We’re happy to host you for as long as you wish. Do your sons enjoy fishing by any chance?”

“Why yes, your grace. Both Stannis and Steffon are quite fond of it.”

“Then we shall have to take them out on my sharking vessel. These waters are teeming with them…don’t worry! It’s perfectly safe. And shark are good eating, too.”

“Is that so, your grace?”

“Absolutely…and when we catch a big one we can make the boys necklaces from their teeth. How about that?”

Marya laughed, but out of the corner of his eye, Griff saw the princess Arianne go pale and bring her tiny hand to her mouth.

“Princess…are you quite all right?” Griff asked, taking the opportunity to rest a hand on her delicate brown arm.

“My apologies your grace,” Arianne whimpered, then rose and ran out of the chamber.

“Oh dear,” Olenna said. “Well better go after her lest she get lost in this monstrosity of a castle…_”_

_“Down the east steps and take a left, princess,” _Lady Marya called out._ “Don’t just wander about_…”[3]

But Griff had already gone after her. The princess was just in the hall outside, resting her forehead against the wall. When she turned to see him, her eyes were wet, and she quickly covered them with one smooth, shapely arm.

“Princess…are you ill? Let me escort you to your chambers. Perhaps you need some rest… I know the weather here isn’t so mild as it is in Dorne…”

“I’m not ill, my prince. I’m sick…sick with worry!” Arianne’s voice was low for a girl, but as smooth as satin. It reminded Griff of the music the bards would play at the markets in Volantis – neither happy nor sad.

“I’m so sorry, princess. I was insensitive prattling on in there. Of course, you’re worried about your brothers. You must be terrified for them.” Griff wanted to slap himself. _Shark’s teeth necklaces_, he thought. _I am truly a human pillow sham._

“My prince…I must speak to you in private,” Arianne said, sniffling. Even with snot in her nose, she was breathtaking. She leaned in and gently rested a palm on Griff’s doublet. Her scent overwhelmed Griff, and he had to resist the urge to take her hand in his and kiss it. “Meet me in Aegon’s Garden, tonight after supper.”

Griff knew he should refuse. _I belong to Daenerys,_ he told himself. His truce with Stannis was contingent on that.

“All right,” he said instead. “Do you know the way?”

“After supper…” Arianne said, laying a hand softly on Griff’s cheek. Then she disappeared down the staircase, her steps as light and fast. Griff placed two fingers on the cheek she had touched. It was red hot.

Chapter 4: Jaime

Months earlier, it wouldn’t have taken much for Jaime to get to a place in his mind where he could kill Cersei. Even in her bed, where he lay quietly watching her sleep, it would only have taken the memory of Tyrion’s words: _she’s been fucking Lancel and Osmund Kettleblack and Moon Boy for all I know… **[4]** _But for whatever reason, he couldn’t bring himself to care anymore. It did infuriate him that she could sleep so peacefully while the walls of the Red Keep closed in on her. He stared at the back of her neck, the little bump of spine protruding beneath the hairline. He reached over and gently placed a finger on that tender, vulnerable nape. Certainly he could snap that slender neck. She had kept her hair short after the septons had shaved it. Jaime’s hair had been shorn also, and at one point he envisioned growing it very long – down past his shoulder blades, as long as Rhaegar Targaryen’s was when he died. But he realized he was too old to wear long hair anymore. It was more grey than golden now. Cersei’s hair had been her pride – a mound of thick golden locks that were the envy of every woman in the Kingdoms. Now she not only kept it trimmed close to her head, she had ordered the hair of all her handmaidens cut short as well.

One of them, Bernadette, banged on the door to summon the queen to breakfast. To Jaime’s dismay, Cersei leapt out of bed, threw on a dressing gown and swung the door wide, as if she had nothing to hide – as if it were no matter that she had spent the evening fucking her brother. She even had the gall to order fresh sheets for the bed. Bernadette dutifully snapped to, her eyes only flickering briefly through the opening before she departed.[5]

“Get dressed. I’ve a surprise for you my love,” Cersei cooed, leaning down to kiss her still prostrate twin. If she noticed his kiss was tepid, she didn’t give any indication. Jaime wondered what the world looked like through her eyes. He supposed it was just a never-ending parade of gold and red in her honor. _I’ve a surprise for you too,_ Jaime thought. But when he had dressed and re-attached his gilded false hand, his sword was nowhere to be seen. He felt a wave a nausea mixed with self-loathing. He could hear Brienne of Tarth’s manly voice calling after him as he rode toward King’s Landing, just after they had gotten wind of the Sept’s destruction and his youngest son’s suicide. _Go then Kingslayer…and be damned!_

Kingslayer – soon to be Queenslayer and kinslayer as well. He could have brained Cersei with his gold hand, but the memory of King Aerys yowling when his sword plunged into his back had stopped him. Why he did not know. With that stroke, he had saved a city from death by wildfire. The same sword was meant for Cersei’s heart. She begged for it when she let their little boy fall to his death. She begged for it when she tossed his ashes in the pile that lay where the Sept stood. She begged for it when she forced him to wait behind Ronnet Connington and some other sycophantic lords before making her audience in the throne room, where she sat on the hideous throne made of swords like she’d earned it. Jaime wondered for a moment if she hadn’t shoved their boy himself.

When she led him into the solar where a breakfast of quail eggs and plums was waiting, he observed the closed window. Before Bernadette took her leave once again, Jaime bid her open it and let the fresh air in. Conveniently, Cersei strolled over and stood in front of it, the dressing gown of pink and gold satin billowing from the cool breeze that whistled its way in.

Now was the time. The castle was mostly still fast asleep, as were most citizens of King’s Landing. Jaime walked up and stood behind Cersei, close enough that his hips brushed against hers. He kissed the bare back of her neck and rested his living hand upon her delicate shoulder.

“Where did you put my sword? I feel naked without it,” Jaime said.

“You don’t need it,” Cersei answered.

“No I don’t suppose I do.”

Jaime tightened his grip on her shoulder just slightly and stepped even closer, so his chest pressed against her back. He breathed in her scent one last time, then stepped back just far enough to give him the leverage he needed for a solid, one-handed push…

“Uncle Jaime?”

The sweet, lilting voice made him spin around so fast he nearly did knock Cersei out the window on accident. Myrcella, his beautiful daughter, dressed in a pink silk gown of the Dornish fashion, ran to him and leapt into his arms.

Chapter 5: Griff

Griff went to the Sept after the meeting, filled with layer upon layer of anxiety. When he’d returned to the Painted Table, flustered from making an appointment with Arianne, Olenna had taken no time in broaching the topic of taking King’s Landing.

“Our current plan is to scour Maidenpool of Cersei’s allies first,” Griff said. “We want to take as few innocent lives as possible…that’s the idea.”

“A noble idea,” Olenna said. “If entirely misguided.”

Griff actually agreed with the old woman, though he knew not to let her know that. Harry and Connington had advised waiting, despite the fact that King’s Landing was at a very weak point. All it would take, Connington insisted, was the stoppage of food and supplies from places like Maidenpool into the city. After a short time of hunger and want, the people of the city would be itching to rid themselves of Cersei. They would turn on her in an instant, and they could move in rather peacefully, especially after they had depleted her army sufficiently with the help of the Tyrell army and possibly Dorne. Griff was impatient, but he certainly didn’t want thousands of civilians to die. Plus, Olenna was overstepping a boundary. He supposed she didn’t have much to lose, but that still didn’t excuse talking that way to a king.

“Lady Olenna,” Griff said sternly. “With respect, I don’t plan to follow in my grandfather Aerys’s footsteps. Violence may seem a convenient solution to some, but it mostly reaps only more violence. You of all people must understand that.”

“Ah, you speak of King Joffrey. What a shocking scene…not at all what I intended I assure you. I’d never seen ‘the strangler’ work before. Who could know it would make such a mess. And the king was so enjoying his wedding to my granddaughter.”

Griff couldn’t help it. “He really was a cunt, wasn’t he my lady?”

Olenna huffed. “A beast, like his mother.”

“I wouldn’t want him to marry someone I loved either. But murdering him wasn’t the answer. I don’t want to rule by death and destruction, my lady. I want the people of King’s Landing to love me, not fear me.”

“That’s nice. Of course I can’t remember a queen more loved than my granddaughter. The common people loved her. The nobles loved her. And what is left of her now? Ashes.”

The old dowager’s eyes grew wet, and Griff found that his did too. As hard a woman as Olenna Tyrell was, what had happened to those she loved was undeniably heartbreaking. He reached out and gently took her small wrinkled hand.

“I am so sorry, my lady. I truly am.”

Olenna took his hand in her other hand and squeezed, surprisingly hard. “Don’t be sorry, my dear prince,” she said fiercely. “_Be a dragon_…”[6]

Griff went to pray before supper, hoping the gods could help straighten the unruly mess in his head. He prayed to the Maiden for chastity and to the Smith for strength. _Give me strength, lord of broken things, that I may endure the tests before me_… Usually prayer helped to soothe his nerves, but it wasn’t working. There was something about the statue of the Stranger in the Sept of Dragonstone that never failed to disturb him. While the other gods looked human in form, the Stranger was something else – an unrecognizable form more like an animal though he could say which. He avoided looking at it whenever he went there to pray. It was almost suppertime, and his prayers hadn’t eased his mind at all. He needed to talk to Connington.

He found the old captain in his chambers, but he wasn’t sitting at his desk writing or sharpening his sword as usual. His wardrobe hung open, empty. The desk had been cleared. Connington was tightly rolling his clothes and placing them into a case that sat on the bed. He wore full armor, and his sword was at his side. Griff became alarmed.

“What are you doing, captain? Supper is about to be served,” Griff said.

Connington turned around and sighed. “I won’t be joining you for supper your grace. I’m afraid I have to leave.”

“What? What do you mean? Where could you possibly be going?”

“Away, my king. I’m afraid I…have to leave you. Permanently.” His voice was grave.

“What? Why? What is the meaning of this?”

Griff felt himself begin to panic. Connington approached him slowly, removing the vambrace from his right arm and rolling up the sleeve of his tunic. “Don’t come too near…” he said, and held out his forearm for Griff to see. Where once had been leathery skin and thin wisps of red hair, there was only a patch of stone-like scales, grey in color.

Griff swallowed. “No,” he said. “It’s not greyscale.”

“I’m sorry, my king. I must have picked it up in Essos just before we sailed West.”

“Is there a cure?”

“I don’t know, your grace. I don’t think so.”

“How long does it…take…take to…”

“I don’t know that either. But I’ve seen what happens when it goes far enough. I’ll end things before that.”

“I’m sorry,” Griff said, his voice withering to a whisper. It was no use trying not to cry. “I’m so sorry…” He couldn’t think of what else to say.

“Don’t be, my king. All I’ve ever wanted was to serve you. Having the privilege to have done so, I can die a happy man.”

Griff’s tears soaked his cheeks. “No,” he said. “Jon Connington of Griffin’s Roost,_ you pledged yourself to me_! You swore to obey my commands for the rest of your life…”

“That won’t be long my king, but I…”

“_Well I command you to find the cure_, wherever it is in this world. Go to Oldtown. To the Citadel…”

“Griff, my son…”

“_I command you to heal yourself_,” Griff said, trying to sound the king even through his sobs. “Then you’ll return. When I am king, I need you with me! _Do you hear me?”**[7]**_

“As you wish, my king.”

_I can’t even hug him goodbye_, Griff realized. He couldn’t speak.

“Now go, sweet prince. Your subjects await you at supper,” Connington said, sadness darkening his pale blue eyes.

Griff nodded, and with a pain like an arrow in his chest, went out the door.

[1] Silverman, Sarah. _The Sarah Silverman Program_. Season 2, Episode 3: “Face Wars.”

[2] Benioff, David and D.B. Weiss. _Game of Thrones._ Season 7, Episode 3: “The Queen’s Justice.”

[3] French, Dawn and Jennifer Saunders. _Absolutely Fabulous._ Season 3, Episode 2: “Happy New Year.”

[4] Martin, George R. R. _A Feast for Crows. _New York: Bantam, 2005.

[5] Benioff and Weiss. _Game of Thrones_. Season 7, Episode 3: “The Queen’s Justice.”

[6] Benioff and Weiss. _Game of Thrones_. Season 7, Episode 2: “Stormborn.”

[7] Benioff and Weiss. _Game of Thrones._ Season 6, Episode 5: “The Door.”


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